


the boy

by Anonymous



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Erik is Evil, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Unreliable Narrator, and tossed the score to Tosca back to his younger self, for the record the opera version of Tosca didn't exist until 10 years after the events of Phantom, in order to make a quick if scandalous buck, the play version was around though, we'll pretend Puccini lived in a wormhole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 02:51:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15015068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In a tragic twist Christine dies during the final confrontation, and the only outlet available to Erik is the worthless boy she left behind.





	the boy

he does not understand the boy's tears. does he fear death? a natural enough reason. many was the man who met death with tears. or is it the fear of what christine will say?

it does not matter. the tears of this insolent child do not concern him. it is from christine that he seeks answer.

he looks to her. she stands where she stood before, her hands to her mouth, shaking from the chill. is she looking at him? but no. he knows she is looking at the boy. she has always been looking at the boy.

rage seizes the muscles in his arm and he yanks at the rope. he looks back and watches the noose draw tighter around the boy's neck. the boy's tongue flickers at his lips momentarily and he hikes up his head, struggling with the rope that binds him to the portcullis.

the rage combines with something like anxiety, like excitement, and then something strikes him from behind. he stumbles. it is christine. she is no longer in the spot she had stood for so long. she is scratching at him, striking him around the head with the heels of her hand as if she already knows what will hurt him the most with the least damage to herself. he tries to pull the rope tighter. let the boy give a cry. let her see how her own stupidity has doomed him. but she has something around his neck, something sharp as wool against his skin, her sleeve, a scarf, a bit of her dress, and she twists it around him, tighter and tighter until he is forced to let go of the boy's noose.

they fall into the water, thrashing over each other. he goes under, fights his way back up and she strikes his back with something sharp, her knee, and he goes under again. he rolls to the side, throws himself against the water, throws her against the stone floor that lies beneath the water, again and again. for a time his own noose grows ever tighter, but her grip falters and he rolls again. the rage grasps him again and he takes her slender throat in his own two hands and holds her beneath the water. dimly he is aware that the boy is screaming her name. let him scream. let him know that he has done this by interfering. christine clutches at his arms and scratches desperately but there is nothing he can do. she has brought this on herself. he holds her down as long as his body will let him, long after she has stopped struggling.

slowly he notices the silence. there is no shouting from the boy. no noise from the mob sent after them. there is only the water dripping steadily in a distant cavern, and a faint roar that might be the fire consuming the opera house above.

he realizes suddenly that christine is not moving.

no.

he struggles to pull her to the edge of dry land but the weight of the water holds her down.

this is not how it was meant to be.

with one hand in her thick dark hair he manages to get her head above water and with the other turns her face toward him. he kisses her, trying to force the air into her unresponsive lungs.

get off her, the boy cries from somewhere behind them. you animal. leave her.

silently he begs her to live. the tears, his own tears, fall on her pale face. he knows there is nothing to be done. she is gone. knowing this gives him the strength to do what he should have done before. he lets her go.

she half-floats, just below the surface of the water.

the boy cries her name again and again. erik only weeps. he guides her through the water until she touches the portcullis. the boy thrashes toward her.

_christine_ , the boy cries. his voice is rough against the noose. _christine. christine._

he wishes the boy would shut up and be a man. he triggers the switch to raise the portcullis. he cannot keep her here. he cannot look at her face without seeing how it has all gone wrong. if the mob still approaches they can put her to rest in the way she deserves, in that snowy graveyard beside her father.

with a groan the portcullis grinds upward. he pushes her into the water beyond and tries his best to ignore the boy still flailing about, the heel of one boot caught on a bar in the portcullis as it pulls him along its track. again he triggers to the switch, and the boy's weight causes the gate to crash back down.

he watches as christine slowly drifts in the still water. for one short moment he longs to reach for her, bring her back, but he knows it is better this way. he longs for the feel of her lips against his but that feeling is gone. it wasn't there. she tasted of the sewage-water and he does not want this to be his last memory of her.

in a moment the feeling overwhelms him and he grabs the boy's jaw, twists his face toward him, and presses their lips together. the boy doesn't struggle but he doesn't kiss back. he tastes of christine.

when they part the boy looks at him, blood on his lips, and whispers, _bastard._

erik laughs away the bitterness.

_don't think that your title gives you legitimacy here,_ he tells the boy, and retires to his chambers.

 

he does not know how long he sleeps. when he awakens his head aches. he does recall dreaming, but the details are lost to the night. he can only recall christine. she is all he has dreamed of for years.

christine.

the rage has him again before he knows it and he swipes an arm across the bedside table, sending piles of staff paper cascading to the floor. rough drafts, revised arias, the remnants of don juan triumphant, all scattered across one another. he wants to set a match to it. wants to burn the opera to the ground and rebuild it only for the pleasure of burning it again. he longs for christine.

dashing out of his chambers, he wends his way back through to the cavern where he last saw his love, his angel of music. the room is dark, most of the candles long since burned out. without a second thought he throws himself into the water and flings himself against the portcullis where the boy still leans.

erik presses his forehead to the bars, cold against one side of his face and clinking sharply against the mask. his eyes roam the cavern through the darkness, searching for just a glimpse of her pale gown against the water. there is nothing.

pain overwhelming rushes through him and he bellows her name into the darkness. over and over he calls. no voice answers him.

at his side is a pocket of movement. the boy stirs.

he does not want to hear the mockery of grief the boy will undoubtedly pour forth into the world. before that ungodly racket can begin again he wraps his hand around the boy's neck and slams him back against the bars of the portcullis.

beneath the sore flesh of his palm he feels the lump of cartilage that protects the boy's larynx flicker up and down. an erratic pulse beats outward. there is nothing to stop him from crushing the boy's throat. there is no bargain he can possibly make with christine or with god that can bring him comfort now. he answers to no one.

without bothering to turn his head he turns his gaze to the boy. the noose is still wrapped tightly below his chin and he hovers as if he wants to lean forward against the ropes but also wants to stand. in the dim light he can just make out the boy's lips, stained red but no longer damp with blood. the eyes are lost in darkness.

death would be too kind for this child. this... this murderer.

with both hands he tears at the ropes. throughout it all the knots have held, though one has loosened enough for the boy to have pulled his arm through the initial loop of rope. erik slashes through the knots with the knife he still carries and the boy collapses into the water. the length of rope coiled round his neck slithers through the bars after him.

the boy tries to raise up on shaking limbs but erik is not so easy to fool. he takes hold of the noose just behind where the knot rests against his head and half-drags the boy to the organ.

he is unsure what he is doing. his body acts of its own volition, dropping the boy at the foot of the keyboard, running his fingers along the keys, almost seeing christine still alongside him as he plays a few chords from don juan triumphant. it was here that they fell in love. it was here that she first saw his face. it was here that they first understood each other. it was here where she died.

again the boy tries to rise and it infuriates him. why should he stand where she once stood when it is because of him that she is gone? he grabs the boy by the back of the neck and drags him up, so that he can see the organ keys stained with erik's tears.

_some one finally loved me,_ he shouts, _and you took her away from me._

the boy grunts. his hands tremble as they pick at the rope round his neck. he knows his own guilt. he will never admit it, but erik knows that he knows.

the rage takes hold again, slamming the boy's face down into the keys so that the organ too screams in pain. again and again the organ screams, but the boy gets his arms up and braces against the keys. the organ screams and screams. the boy's head, bent low by the force of the rage, shakes.

he flings the boy back against the cold floor. all this blood spattered against the organ. he should have killed the boy in that cemetery. he should have strangled him without letting christine throw her life away. he has failed himself. worse, he has failed her.

the cavern echoes back the organ until it is silent. water drips. erik breathes hard. the boy mumbles.

when he looks down the boy is shaking. fluid leaks from his nose, red and thin. his body jerks against the ground and the noises that come from him are not quite human.

it is too dark. erik crouches beside the boy, craning to see what his eyes are doing. it could be a trick. in this light it is impossible to tell. he takes hold of the noose and tries to lift the boy, but the rope slides through the slip knot and the boy falls back. his head strikes the floor.

no. the boy will not get out of this that easily.

he grabs up the boy the way he once lifted christine when her nerves couldn't bear to take it anymore. it is hard not to make the connection, though the boy is wet with blood and water and christine had still smelled of the roses brought to her back stage.

the boy is heavy and still thrashing. love lends erik no strength with him. he cannot carry the boy far, and the only place they will be able to reach is the bed meant for christine.

his teeth grind though he is hardly aware of it. this bed, with its soft satin sheets and filmy curtains and multitude of pillows, was meant for christine. he throws the boy down onto the sheets. such a waste, on this filthy violent child.

he walks a circuit around the bed, lighting candles. he will see the boy's face. he will know if this is a trick.

when he returns to the bedside the boy's body has stilled, though nonsensical syllables continued to spill haphazardly from his lips. the boy's eyes are open but dull and vacant. blood forms a mask over the boy's cheeks and lips and chin, a mirror image of erik's own mask. in the flickering candlelight he can just make out the mark around the boy's neck where the noose cut into his flesh. wanting a closer look he grabs the boy's jaw, intending to twist the head upward and expose the mark, and instead he abruptly remembers the taste of the boy's lips.

as if in a dream he bows his head and again his lips rub against the boy's. it isn't a kiss. he explores the taste, the blood, the water, what remains of christine. it isn't a kiss.

when he straightens his back the boy's eyes are on him, still expressionless, but focused on his face as he breathes roughly. more sounds come from his mouth. these seem more orderly.

_what did you say?_ he asks.

_please,_ is the only thing the boy says.

_it's too late to beg._

the boy does not respond. he is still breathing, his eyes are still open, but there is no movement, nothing to suggest he is still conscious. anger grips erik by the throat. no. the boy does not get the comfort of unconsciousness. if erik must be aware that cristine is gone, so must the boy.

in a cupboard in the chambers he finds a bottle of armagnac, unopened and dusty. he tears the wrapper and cork away and takes a long drink. he is not shaking. he is thirsty.

he forces the brandy down the boy's throat. the boy chokes and struggles but his reactions are pitiful. the brandy spills over his mouth and carries away some of the blood.

_you think you knew her?_ he shouts. _stupid child. you saw her face and i her soul._ he takes back the bottle and downs as much as he can, though much of it spills down his own face. _you looked at the sun reflecting on the ocean and thought you saw everything._

the boy writhes and coughs up more of the brandy. a sound not unlike a sob escapes him. grief or guilt? he deserves guilt. he deserves more than guilt. he deserves to burn in a hell a thousand times hotter than any that currently exists.

the rage is blinding him.

he strikes the boy twice. he slams his fists into the delicate bones beneath his collar. when the boy's reaction is only a muffled groan he sinks his fingers into the expensive fabric of the boy's shirt and tears it open. the boy only stares up into the nothingness above him.

he finds himself on the boy, straddling his chest and grabbing the boy by the hair, and he might go farther, he might, he might...

but now the boy reacts. he takes a breath or what sounds like a breath, what might have been a breath, but it sounds as if his lungs are melting inside him. he raises his head up for a moment before falling back again. the boy twists to one side and before erik can move he vomits.

the disgust overpowers the rage. erik hardly dares to move for fear the slightest shifting of weight will cause the watery morass to slide down the mattress onto his legs and down the boy's face and neck to his hips.

the boy retches again. nothing else comes out.

_this bed was hers,_ erik tells him. _it should not surprise me that you would befoul it as well._

this is not how it was supposed to be, he reminds himself. if not for this worthless boy it would be christine beneath him.

he tears off the mask. what use will it serve him now? who but christine was it for? he stares flames into the boy so that he will know this was his doing, but the boy only gulps for air. he does not react in the way that erik knows anyone seeing his true face should.

_she should have been mine but you took her from me,_ erik tells him. _now you are mine instead._

to drive home his point he smashes the mask against the bedpost, shattering it into shards of every size, and he uses the largest shard to carve christine's name into the boy's chest.

when he is done the boy is stilled beneath him. his eyes are closed in silent assent. he will accept this punishment.

 

he paces the length of the room.

the boy remains semi-conscious, a spasm running through him every few minutes that twists him against the now stained and filthy sheets. his hair is drying against his face, stiffened by the water and by blood and fluid.

erik has been and remains under no delusions that the boy could replace christine. of course beneath the expensive clothing the boy is not the same as the girl he's watched grow and blossom these past few years. he knows better than to hope for miracles.

what he has failed to anticipate is the pleasure it has given him.

the way the boy's face contracted with pain. the way he wept as he began to react to things, as the awakening confusion in his expression turned to disbelief and then to fear. the way he held himself barely stiffened, too weak to struggle but unable to let go. before today erik would never has expected these things to excite him so much. vengeance is sweet. not as sweet as dear christine, but he is glad nonetheless.

and yet it worries him. is this act a betrayal of christine? he is sure she would have wanted him to avenge her, but he worries that the very act itself has corrupted her memory.

the thought of his own betrayal leads to thoughts of another. there was no way the boy could have found his way through the labyrinthine tunnels to get here. he must have had help. giry must have helped him. but why? surely she must have known what the boy intended. why would she betray him?

she must have told him of the punjab lasso, he thinks bitterly. he comes over at the boy and in a spike of rage yanks the blanket over him so he won't have to see this, this interloper. surely giry would have told him of the dangers, to keep his hand at the level of his eye, and the stupid fool had not the intelligence to actually follow her advice. not he. the boy was clearly too good for that. and now neither of them will get what they wanted.

beneath the blanket the boy makes a deep snarling noise but erik is not afraid of him. he has seen more of the boy than anyone living. he knows how useless he is.

he draws back the blanket from the boy's mottled face and considers whether or not he should crush a pillow around his face. of course his revenge does not come close to equalling the gravity of what the boy did to christine, but just looking at him dredges up too much pain in erik's heart.

he leans down and slips his fingers around the boy's slim throat and considers. he looks for guilt in the boy's eyes and finds nothing. perhaps there is nothing there to see. perhaps there has never been anything inside the boy to guide him--no conscience, no empathy, no still, quiet words spoken in the voice of the person who guided his moral development. perhaps there was never such a person in the boy's life.

he feels some degree of pity for the boy. but he also feels... freedom.

the boy's eyes close and open again, and his head droops to one side. he makes another hollow sound deep in his throat. for an instant he raises his head, neck pressing weakly up against erik's hand, and then he falls back one last time.

_christine,_ he mumbles. he trembles.

erik follows his gaze, expecting nothing but receiving everything. she is there. christine. she is standing in the entryway to the alcove that was to have been her chamber.

_christine,_ he says. she is as beautiful as he remembers, her skin smooth and white in contrast to her dress. he remembers the dress from so long ago, the dress she wore the day he brought her here for the first time. her hand rests below her throat, where dark shadows play. he remembers his mask and puts a hand to his face to protect them both, but christine shows no fear of his monstrous face.

_christine,_ he says again, stumbling toward her, his arms outstretched. she moves forward too and he is prepared to embrace her but she slips through his arms like a ghost.

he spins to follow her, but she continues to the bed and kneels beside it.

_christine,_ the boy croaks. his voice is a blasphemy to her very name.

_i'm so sorry, raoul,_ she whispers. _it took so much time to make them listen. i was afraid..._

the look the boy gives her and the way he squeezes her hand on the blanket enrages him. how dare he even look upon her face? how dare he call her by name? how dare he not fall down dead at her feet from shame?

but the boy does not and the rage swims soothingly through his limbs. he starts toward them--he will put a stop to this--and just as he is about to pull christine from the boy's foul grasp a shot rings out, loud and clear as the betrayal of cavaradossi. something tears through him. he falls.

he looks to christine to find she is no tosca. she does not weep at his downfall. he knows in his heart, as the men with guns swarm over him, that it is she who has betrayed him.

before the world can fade to nothing he sees her embrace the boy.

what a fool he was, erik thinks, to have ever trusted anyone at all.


End file.
